71

i've been pouring hot water onto my fingertips 

for exactly 71 days

sniffing clothes biting tongues chewing nails slamming doors tearing letters eating junk

it's become a habit to rot away per day

when my mind slip in

to thoughts of you

you think of me, too; i can tell

by the way you

beg me to do things to please you

to keep my promises

to smile right

to talk right

to eat right

to sleep right

to live right

to kiss right

to treat you right

only to wonder if I love you when I fulfill all your demands

while you break rules

that I never even made;

the same mistakes

- shouldn't I be the one asking?

you give me a hundred excuses to leave 

while I give you none, but somehow you're always the first to

walk out

with each step I take towards you

you'd smoothen every line on my face and kiss my 

roughed up fingertips

without asking why

without knowing why

oblivious to how much i dream of you

71 consecutive nights

for you're always the one saying you see me in dreams.

it is like you still portray me as

something you can't touch because

of the way you

fantasize on just how willing i am to

carve my heart out for you

and you get annoyed when the best I can give is

a drawing of my heart; because you forget the inconveniences 

on my side;

simple facts like how

giving my heart to you

just because i have to prove myself

once more

would take my life away - and it's not worth it because I'll soon have you

begging me not to leave

for dying somehow becomes my fault because you're so self-indulged you 

failed to see my heart in your hands as a wish of your own

but as a doing of my own

asking me 'don't you love me anymore?'

for the 71th time.